


Dog Days

by rayc64



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayc64/pseuds/rayc64
Summary: My submission for 2020's "It's My Birthday Too" fanfic contest on Jim Butcher's website.Hank Carpenter has a meaningful encounter on the day before Thanksgiving.
Kudos: 10





	Dog Days

Dog Days

Every young boy should have a puppy. Which is why Hank Carpenter was cradling a small black canine inside his coat, making his way back to the family home the evening before Thanksgiving.  
He’d been minding his own business, walking through the increasing gloom of gathering evening in Chicago, grumping to himself about the injustices he’d suffered. His sisters had thrown him out of the house. The pre-Thanksgiving cooking forced him to venture into the kitchen one too many times and he had been banished. His father and older brother Matthew had been busy in the garage and Hank, despite his last name, was no carpenter.  
He’d been heading to the playground, now just a little too juvenile for his tweenage self, when he’d heard the forlorn cry of a puppy. He’d cast about, looking under the bushes of the Chicago bungalows, and on the curb along the street. He knew that a puppy or a small dog wouldn’t have much of a chance on a cold, windy autumn night.  
He couldn’t find the puppy, but the sound drew him to the storm drain along the curb. Peering through the cast iron grate, he could dimly make out a small black form moving on top of a pile of leaves and refuse. Hank grabbed the grate and gave a heave. The grate made a moan of protest and shifted, but it was far too heavy. Lying down, he shaded his eyes to see better in the dark. Sure enough, it was a puppy, barely moving. It was complaining about the cold, an empty belly, and no mother there to help it.  
Hank knelt, and shrugged out of his coat. This time, when he laid down parallel to the curb, he snaked his arm through the concave cutout, around the grate. and stretched toward the puppy. His fingers were only an inch or so out of reach, but it might as well have been a mile. Perhaps he should get his father? Surely Michael Carpenter had the strength or the means to move the grate?  
The puppy must have sensed his presence, it opened toothless jaws, made a shrieking puppy howl and snapped at his fingers. Awkwardly, it lunged at his hand and he was able to grab a twist of skin and fur at the scruff of its neck. It made a shriek of protest as he bumped it into the grate while lifting it out of the sewer.  
The puppy was midnight black, with a rough coat and ice blue eyes. Hank didn’t know enough about dogs to even guess at the breed, but its legs seemed oddly long, and its paws were very large for such a small dog.  
He twisted back into his coat, one arm at a time while cradling the puppy, who was struggling and twisting this way and that.  
“Poor little pup. You must be hungry.”  
Hank fastened his coat with the puppy inside and made his way back home. He managed to slip back into the house, making a beeline through the kitchen, and successfully skulked back to the bedroom he shared with Matthew. He tossed his coat on the floor between the beds and nestled the puppy in the lining. He knew there was an empty bowl from his last successful foray into the kitchen when he’d managed to grab some popcorn. He filled this with water from the bathroom and brought it to the pup. It took a lap of the water, but went right back to complaining. Hank wanted to quiet the pup and the only thing he could think that might help was food.  
Hank hid around the corner. In the kitchen, Hope was working with his mother, Charity. Amanda and Alicia were nowhere in sight. He could see a pair of pies cooling on the end of the kitchen island. Beyond the island lay his objective, the refrigerator.  
Hope had turned away to do some preparation and his mother was washing something in the sink. He crouched down and crept forward on stocking-clad feet. The access door in the refrigerator opened quietly, the soft sound drowned out by the water running in the sink and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables. Past the gallons of milk and the jug of orange juice Hank spied the container of leftover meatloaf. He spread the gallon jugs and retrieved his prize.  
Quiet as a mouse, a real one, not Uncle Harry’s dog, he closed the access door, turned and made his way back to the stair hall. Just as his foot gained the first stair, Amanda Carpenter opened the powder room door.  
“I thought I told you to get lost?” Amanda asked, threateningly.  
Hank abandoned stealth for speed and retreated back to his room.  
He crushed some of the meatloaf, offering it to the pup. When did puppies start eating solid food? Did they need teeth to eat? Hank began to feel out of his depth. He wanted the puppy, but at the same time he didn’t want to hurt or kill it because he didn’t know anything about dogs.  
The puppy launched itself at the crushed, cooked meat. It wolfed the food down, making small, contented puppy growls as it savaged its food with toothless jaws. A short time later, its belly distended by its first solid food, the puppy grew quiet. Hank placed it on his bed, next to his pillow and watched it sleep.  
As he cuddled the little dog, he said, “I think I will call you Jet.”  
Thanksgiving morning dawned. The Carpenter house was a beehive of activity. Hank awoke after Matthew, thankful that somehow his brother hadn’t noticed Jet. The pup was awake and sniffing around the bed and Hank decided he’d better take it outside to let it do its business.  
He smuggled it into the back yard, put it down on the grass in the autumn frost. The pup began nosing around, taking feeble steps to investigate the world.  
“What do you have there, Hank?”  
Hank turned, to find his father standing on the back porch. “A puppy I found in a storm sewer, Dad. Can we keep it? I already named it Jet.”  
Michael Carpenter inhaled through his nose, “Now son, you know that when Maggie is here, she has Mouse with her. How’s Mouse going to react to a strange dog?”  
Hank’s rebuttal was interrupted by a tall, dark-skinned man walking up their driveway. He was dressed casually, in shades of black and charcoal. On his head was baseball cap with a stag antler logo on the front. He stopped a few yards away and addressed them both.  
“Hank Carpenter, Michael Carpenter. I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he nodded toward the ground where the puppy prowled.  
Before Hank could reply, he felt the air on either side of him grow heavy, as if someone had stepped up on either side to guard him.  
The dark man raised one hand, palm forward. “I mean no harm. I merely come to reclaim what is mine by right.”  
“How do I know Jet belongs to you?” Hank asked.  
The man knelt, and extended his hand. The puppy immediately began straining across the frosted turf toward him. “The pup knows its master. A barghest whelped a brace of puppies on our hunt, the eve before last. She could only carry one back to my halls. Before she could return for the other last night, you had taken it in to foster. Your home’s guardians prevented her from entering, to your fortune.”  
Hank knew. He knew it was right, but he hated it just the same. He scooped the puppy up, fondled it one last time before approaching the dark man.  
“He’ll be okay, won’t he?” Hank asked.  
The dark man smiled, revealing pointed teeth. “The breed is strong, bold and savage. He’d have been more trouble than you could have dealt with, ere long.”  
Hank, eyes brimming, offered the pup to the man.  
“Freely given?” the man asked.  
Hank nodded in reply.  
The man reached out, taking the pup in one hand. “It is not unknown for one of my hounds to make rut with a mortal dog. When the time is right, Hank Carpenter, I will repay your care for my hound with a boon of my own.”  
As the man walked away, Hank felt his father’s hand rest on his shoulder. “I know I didn’t even have him for a day, but I’m going to miss Jet.”  
Michael didn’t reply, he just watched the man leave the Carpenter’s property before turning with his son to go back inside.  
“Do you think he meant what he said, dad? Do you think he’ll give me a dog someday?” Hank asked.  
“If that’s who I think it was, it’s a certainty” Michael said.  
“Can I keep it?”  
“We’ll see.”


End file.
